Hello
by LadySolitaire83
Summary: The Return Remix: In which Moriarty didn't send Molly a morbid gift on the day of the broadcast. Molly is watching news programmes at home when the Watsons call round. Knowing that this isn't a social visit, she opens the door to let her friends in but gets the shock of her life instead. (Also, sort-of fusion/crossover with FRINGE.)
**HELLO**

 **5 March 2016**

 **A/N: The idea to remix _The Return_ has been rattling around in my brain for a while. Only when I was writing a ficlet for my freelance editing blog did I get to work out how the remix was gonna go.**

 **What if Moriarty had not sent Molly a morbid gift to coincide with the broadcast? What if she went straight home after seeing his face on the telly?**

 **This is also not quite canon-compliant, since I decided to ignore the fact that Sherlock was high when he got on that plane and that he created an entire Victorian AU in his head to figure out how the Moriarty broadcast happened. It wouldn't have been consistent with _The Last Night_ anyway.**

 **Agents Dunham and Bishop are also back, but I've decided to make them more like the FRINGE characters rather than merely using their names and being ambiguous about their relationship. I did adjust their timeline to coincide with HLV and TAB. Just like with _Back to Where You've Never Been_ , an intimate knowledge of FRINGE and its characters isn't required to follow the story. (I highly recommend this show, though, because it's one of the best sci-fi series ever.)**

 **I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**

* * *

Molly pulled her skull-printed duvet tighter round herself as another chill went down her spine and enveloped her. She had only been home for about an hour, but she had already lost count of the times she shivered––both in the cold and in fear––since she saw Jim Moriarty's face on the office telly.

She could still recall the gooseflesh that prickled her skin as she hurriedly slipped into her coat and hoisted her handbag onto her shoulder. She even asked the cabbie to turn up the heat in the middle of ringing Stamford to explain why she clocked off early. Switching on her electric fireplace once she got home, she then changed into her favourite Bowie shirt, a pair of grey drawstring sweatpants, and a pair of her warmest Christmas socks. She pulled on a fleece hoodie over her shirt and grabbed her duvet before parking herself on the couch and turning on the telly.

But neither the duvet in which she wrapped herself nor the warmth of Toby's body next to her could stop the chill that went through her body every time the news programmes played back Moriarty's video.

She wondered how Sherlock would react if he had seen it. _His plane would've taken off by now_ , she thought, heaving a mournful sigh. _I suppose it's too much to hope that Moriarty showing up on screens all over the country would bring him back, eh?_ Her eyes welling up with tears, she reached into her burgundy hoodie's pocket and pulled out her mobile. She flipped the brown leather cover open and removed his short farewell note from behind her Oyster card. Sniffling, she read it once more.

I wish we had more time together, Molly Hooper. Adieu, mon amour.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

 _And_ _I wish he'd woken me before he left_ , Molly thought as tears rolled down her cheeks. But she knew that Sherlock chose the least painful option for both of them. Seeing him off would break her, which would only make leaving more difficult for him. So she whispered her own tearful goodbyes as she clutched his note to her chest, and then she got ready for work.

Although his departure left a lacuna in her heart and life, last night's memories—the warmth of his embrace, the minty smell of his breath when they kissed, the soft sniffles she heard right before sleep claimed her, and the sincerity in his eyes every time he told her that he loved her—would stay with her until she drew her last breath.

The telephone by the front door rang, startling her out of her thoughts. Wiping her face dry and blowing her nose onto a tissue, she tucked Sherlock's note behind her driving licence before shuffling towards the unit mounted on the wall. "Yes?"

"Molly, it's John and Mary."

Despite her sadness, she smiled at the sound of John's voice. "Oh, hello! Did Mycroft send you two?"

"Well, yeah," Mary replied after a beat. "May we come in? It's about Moriarty."

"Yes, of course."

After buzzing them in, she folded the duvet and draped it over the couch's backrest. Then she went into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. She had just refilled the tumbler when the Watsons knocked on her door.

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped when she pulled the door open. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see John and Mary standing in front of the Humes' door. She glanced at Mycroft, who was standing between the two MI6 officers that escorted Sherlock last night, to her left. But she would analyse the various expressions on their faces later. Because, right now, her gaze was drawn to the tall, curly-haired, and Belstaff-clad man standing in the middle.

Sherlock grinned at her as he took a step forward, his body mere inches from hers. "Hello, Molly Hooper."

Her mouth curved into a smile before she wrapped her arms round his neck and pulled him down for a happy, relieved, welcome-home-and-please-don't-leave-me-again kiss. Amidst John's surprised whoop, Mary's delighted cry, and Mycroft's disgusted groan, she giggled into the kiss when he pulled her close, immediately warming her up. She ran her fingers through his curls and gently tugged at his hair, eliciting groans of pleasure from him.

"Miss Hooper," interrupted Mycroft, "if you don't mind, please stop snogging my little brother for a minute and let us in. We need to speak with you about your safety."

Blushing, she pulled her lips away but kept her arms slung round his neck. "Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes," she told him in a low voice. She gave him a chaste peck on the lips before grabbing his hand. Finally tearing her eyes off him, she cleared her throat and turned to the others. "Sorry, I just got carried away."

She was about to go back inside when Mycroft threw an arm in front of her and shook his head. He turned to the two MI6 officers and tilted his head towards her open door. "My apologies," he told her as the besuited officers strode into her home. "We just need to make sure that Moriarty, or the people responsible for that broadcast, had not planted surveillance equipment in your flat."

"He doesn't want Moriarty's bugs interfering with his, of course," Sherlock remarked with a playful wink at her.

The tall, blonde woman returned to the entrance hall within a minute. "All clear, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Miss Hooper."

" _Doctor_ Hooper," she gently corrected him as she pulled Sherlock inside, their friends filing in behind them. "Tea?" she asked her guests as they headed towards the sitting room.

"Agents Dunham and Bishop are already making it," replied Mycroft as he shut the door. "Do sit down, so we can begin."

"What do you know about the broadcast?" asked Molly as she sat down in the middle of her couch, still holding Sherlock's hand.

"Besides it being shown nationwide? Nothing concrete yet. He cannot possibly be alive, though, since I was _very_ thorough that time."

"So you don't know exactly who did it yet?" Molly glanced at everyone.

"No, not yet," replied John. "Well, Sherlock does have a vague idea, but…"

"The thing is, um, Sherlock can't fully concentrate on this case until _you're_ safe," added Mary.

Just as the officers returned to the sitting room with the tea, Molly whirled round to face the detective. "What does she mean by that?"

Sherlock squeezed her hand and tenderly gazed at her. "While I'm certain that the Moriarty I spoke with on the roof is dead, I need to determine if I––or more likely, _Mycroft's_ intel––somehow missed a secret clone or a twin that's as fucked up as he was. Although either is highly unlikely, unless he was extremely good in hiding it––which, of course, he was, because we're the same." Pausing, he took a deep breath and smiled at Molly. "Regardless, the people responsible for the broadcast will come after you if they knew who you are in my life and how you helped me fake my death. And I won't be able to _properly_ focus on this case until I know that you are safe from any harm."

Her heart warmed at his concern, and she flashed him a loving smile. "All right. So what are you suggesting, Sherlock?"

He took a deep breath. "I need you to move to Baker Street with me until this is resolved."

"Wh-what?" She gave a nervous chuckle and glanced round at Mycroft and the Watsons.

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands and pursed his lips for a moment before turning his puppy-dog eyes on her. "Please, Molly? You won't have to worry about anything. I'll be with you at all times in the flat. You will sleep in my bedroom, since I won't sleep until I've sorted this out anyway. Mrs Hudson will take care of you when I'm in my mind palace or become too engrossed in the case. The two of you can even bake, cook, or watch crap telly together."

"B-but what if this is what they want? You know, to get us in one place, so they can kill all of us?"

"I will _not_ let that happen. Mycroft has already raised our surveillance status, which just tripled the number of agents watching our every move. I've also sent word to my homeless network to watch Baker Street, this building, and Barts, amongst other places we frequent."

Molly considered Sherlock's argument. "If these people are already surveilling us, then why do I need to leave my home? And wouldn't they expect this from you? What if they decided to strike while we're all at 221B figuring out how to solve this case? We'd all be hurt––or worse!"

"Molly has a point, Sherlock," John said.

"Well, yes. But Mycroft's agents will apprehend them before they try anything," Mary responded. "And I'm calling in some favours for extra protection."

Sherlock heaved an impatient sigh. "I _told_ you I would _never_ let them hurt the people I care about." He cleared his throat and shrugged. "Mrs Hudson would love to spend some time with you anyway. And she'd feel better if you're safe at 221B."

"Mrs Hudson knows her property isn't Area 51." She rolled her eyes when Sherlock just stared at her with knitted eyebrows. "Anyway, you mean _you'd_ feel better?"

"Obviously," a smirking Mary answered for Sherlock, who sent her an affectionate glance.

Molly nodded. "What about work? Bodies need to be autopsied and samples need to be processed."

He paused for a moment before his gaze landed on the two MI6 officers. His eyes lit up as he gestured towards them. "Dunham and Bishop will escort you to work and back to Baker Street every day," he replied, glancing at Mycroft. "They'll also stay with you during your shift."

"Sherlock, they're MI6," Mycroft pointed out. "They have more important things to do for the kingdom's protection than look after your goldf––pardon me, _significant other_ ––all day. MI5 or Scotland Yard officers are better suited for this type of work."

The detective rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Molly has met them, so she'll be more comfortable with them when they escort her wherever she needs to go and when they look after her in my absence. They're astute, clever, and competent. They can protect Molly. And when they get bored, they can regale her with tales of life in Boston and of their little girl."

Molly glanced at the couple, while they shared a bemused look. She gave them a reassuring smile. "It's OK. He deduces things about everyone based on their appearance, body language, and so on. It's part of his work, and he can't help it. He's not a stalker or anything as creepy."

The couple exchanged a smile before the blonde woman nodded at her. "We understand, Doctor." She then turned to Mycroft. "Mr Holmes, Agent Bishop and I would be honoured to escort Dr Hooper wherever she goes," Agent Dunham declared.

"We will do absolutely anything to protect your brother's significant other," Agent Bishop chimed in.

"Very well," Mycroft answered with a reluctant nod.

Sherlock smiled at Molly. "See? What do you say? Will you move in with me until I get rid of the people that could harm us?"

"Wouldn't it be better, though, to just send me to a safe house if you're really worried about my safety?"

"That's plan B," replied Mary, who glanced at the pouting consulting detective. "In case any of us fails to protect you, Mycroft's PA will accompany you to an undisclosed location until this is all sorted out. We'll arrange your time off with Stamford, don't worry." She smiled at the pathologist. "You'll have minimal contact with us, of course. But once we're certain that the people responsible for this broadcast won't bother us—especially you—ever again, then you and Anthea will travel back. How's that?"

Molly nodded and smiled back at her. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Sherlock. "All right. I'll move to Baker Street."

"Excellent!" he exclaimed before kissing Molly on the lips. Holding on to her hand, he rose from the couch and pointed at the MI6 officers. "Dunham and Bishop, pack the cat's essentials. The cat food is in the bottom right cupboard in the kitchen." He turned to the Watsons. "John, pack her medical books and most recent journals in the rucksack in the spare bedroom wardrobe. Mary, please deal with her toiletries. They're in the bathroom down the hall. You'll find the spare toiletries bag in the cupboard under the sink." Then he smirked down at Mycroft. "While you're getting me a pardon, kindly arrange the daily car service for Molly and the officers, brother dear. And call Lestrade and Donovan to meet us at Baker Street." He returned his brother's eye-roll before smiling down at her. "Come along, Molly." He pulled her to her feet and led the way to her bedroom. "I need you to run through Moriarty's post-mortem while you pack your jumpers and trousers. Do you still have your midnight blue duffel bag? I need it for your underwear and sleepwear."

She gasped in mock surprise and tugged at his hand. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are _not_ touching my underwear!"

"Oh, relax," he replied, glancing back at her with a smirk as he opened her bedroom door. "I just need to make sure that we're bringing all your skull-printed knickers and brassieres to our flat!"

" _Our_ flat?"

Sherlock only grinned at her as he pulled the third drawer in her oak chest open.

Giggling to herself and flushing, she removed her fleece hoodie and flung it onto the bed _. I'm so glad that Sherlock's back. And, as a bonus, the chills down my spine are gone!_ She smiled as she hastily rolled her jumpers and crammed them into her suitcase.

* * *

 _The title doesn't come from the Adele song._

 _Sherlock's 'vague idea' does come from TAB, where he thinks of Emelia Ricoletti's case. But, because he isn't high, he couldn't work it out the way he did in the episode. It would take days (at least), extensive research, and many trips to his mind palace before he figures it out._

 _The first draft had way more snogging between Sherlock and Molly, but I ultimately decided to cut them. Sorry._

 _I also played around with the idea that Molly would just be sent off to a safe house with Anthea, but I decided to make that plan B instead._

 _For anyone who has never seen or heard of FRINGE, Olivia Dunham is an FBI agent in the Fringe Division of the Boston office. Peter Bishop is a consultant (along with his father, Walter) and started a romantic relationship with Olivia. They have a daughter named Etta. (Please note that this is a simplified summary of the Polivia relationship. The many twists and turns aren't relevant to this fic.)_

 _So what do you think? Hate it? Like it? Love it?_


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